Supercarrier: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 1

by Scott Bartlett

  The opposing squadron grew large in his tactical display, and suddenly the situation became less about his relationship with the Fleet and more about survival. With some help from the onboard AI, he calculated a firing solution that anticipated the enemies’ trajectories and leveraged the velocity of his mad dash. If his ordnance hit, the Talons would get ripped apart.

  “We got your back, sir. Senior Airman Bradley here, closing in on the enemy with a flock of Condors at my six.”

  “Acknowledged, Senior Airman,” Husher grunted. “And thanks.”

  As suspected, Fesky hadn’t actually ordered him to his death. Instead, she leveraged the Winger squadron’s overextension by attacking them from two vectors.

  The Condor’s gyros allowed Husher to direct his weapons anywhere, despite his momentum. As his Condor screamed toward the enemy, a beep told him the time had arrived, and he depressed the trigger, relishing as always the staccato vibration of his ammunition leaving the fighter. His decision to delay calibrating his salvo until the last minute left the enemy Talons with little time to react.

  Even so, as his firing arc swept across the enemy ships, his success surprised him. Two of his three chosen targets burst apart in a brief flash of light. The Wingers’ usual synergy should have meant a better showing than that.

  He flashed past the Talons, bringing his weapons around and engaging his engine in the opposite direction to enable a controlled parting shot. As he did, Fesky’s twin EW squadrons appeared on his tactical display, operating at the periphery of the engagement. Ah. I see. Fesky had pounced on the enemy’s brazenness even more thoroughly than Husher had realized. With that much electronic interference, they couldn’t hope to communicate with each other.

  The Condor pilots made short work of the rest of the squadron, and no others sought to challenge them. The remaining Talons remained close to their Roostship.

  Orders came from Keyes to clear the firing lanes between the carriers. The captain planned to try communicating, with the Providence’s superior artillery backing up his words.

  “I don’t get it,” Bradley said as the Condors maneuvered out of the way. “The Wingers were outmatched to begin with, and still they only sent out one squadron.”

  Husher wiped sweat from his brow, trying to mask his heavy breathing as he spoke. “It looks like a delaying tactic, to me. They know they can’t take us on alone, so they’re stalling.”

  “Stalling for what?”

  “Reinforcements would be the most obvious answer.”

  As if on cue, Keyes’s voice filled the cockpit: “Condors return to base. Sensors have detected four more Roostships approaching. We’re getting out of this system.”

  Chapter 10

  Space to Breathe

  “Uh oh,” Ensign Moreno said.

  “Uh oh does not contain any actual information,” Keyes barked. “Give me a sitrep, Ensign.”

  Moreno’s collar covered most of his neck, but what Keyes could see of it flushed scarlet. “Sorry, Captain. Now that the Condors are returning to Providence, the enemy Talons have dropped their defensive posture and are giving chase. They’re firing on our fighters.”

  Keyes drummed his fingers on his chair’s armrest, his trimmed nails clicking against the cold metal. “Coms, try patching me through to Wingleader Korbyn’s Roostship once more.”

  “Yes, sir. Frequency open.”

  “Wingleader Korbyn, this is Captain Leonard Keyes of the UHS Providence.” He’d encountered Korbyn many times, during the First Galactic War and since. “Because of our species’ status as allies under the Galactic Treaty Organization, I’m giving you one last opportunity to disengage and account for your aggression toward a United Human Fleet warship. This is your final warning.”

  He resisted the urge to look around the CIC to gauge his crewmembers’ tension levels. Letting his temper go was one thing—he often regretted it, yet it served to keep his crew on their toes. Showing unease, on the other hand, would be simply unacceptable.

  “No response, Captain.”

  Keyes let five more seconds pass, knowing his next actions would likely render an inter-species war inevitable.

  In truth, the Winger attack didn’t come as a total surprise. Most aliens resented the dominant position humanity enjoyed because of dark tech, not to mention the UHF’s self-assigned role of policing the galaxy. He’d expected conflict for a long time, which was why he’d spent most of his career maneuvering to prevent the Providence from getting decommissioned. The supercarrier would provide humanity’s only recourse if dark tech ever failed them.

  “All right,” he said. “Time to show them what our old girl can do. Direct the forward primary laser projector at the Roostship’s main aftward engine nacelle and fire tertiary lasers at the oncoming Talons.”

  Moreno cleared his throat. “Tertiary lasers will do no appreciable damage to the enemy fighters, sir.”

  “No, but they will disrupt their coms and keep them guessing.” Though keeping his temper in check, Keyes made a mental note to have Moreno reassigned from Tactical following the engagement. He’d come with a glowing reference from Command, and yet the man clearly struggled with basic application. “Midshipman Arsenyev, kindly aid Ensign Moreno in compiling targeting data within a timeframe meaningful for this battle.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arsenyev crossed the CIC at a jog, her immaculately polished boots flashing in the ambient lighting.

  There’s our replacement for Moreno. Before moving to Nav, Arsenyev had been on the rotation of Tactical officers. Perhaps the time had come for her return.

  “Open with the tertiaries and follow as soon as you can with the primary, Tactical. We’re running out of time. Coms, show me a splitscreen on the main display—a magnified Roostship on one side and the approaching Talons on the other.”

  The display changed, showing the fighters crossing the distance between the capital ships at speed. If Tactical didn’t come up with that data soon, the Talons would use their own targeting systems to cherry-pick vital components of the Providence.

  “Tactical!” Keyes yelled, unable to keep the frustration from his voice.

  “We just finished, sir. Tertiary lasers ready.”

  “Fire!”

  “Firing tertiary lasers.”

  Keyes permitted himself a smile as the Talons’ tight formations began to slip. “Ready our point defense turrets. How close are we to targeting that engine nacelle?”

  “Ready now, Captain,” Arsenyev said. “I had the AI compute in parallel.” As she spoke, Moreno glanced at her with tightened lips.

  “Excellent,” Keyes said. “Fire primary laser.”

  “Firing.”

  A sigh of relief escaped him as he watched the Roostship’s engine melt away. He’d taken a risk by keeping the Providence’s enormous primary capacitor charged for this long while in battle. At the start of the First Galactic War, humanity had lost two capital ships to the Ixa straight away because their captains had waited to discharge their primary lasers. With a capacitor that large, the slightest agitation could trigger a catastrophic release of energy.

  We’ve damaged their ability to give chase. That’s all that matters. “Now that we have some breathing room, it’s time to take our leave. Nav, fire the engines and make for the darkgate back into Commonwealth space.”

  “What about the other four Roostships?”

  “With all our engines engaged, we’re much faster than they are. We should be out of the system long before they close the gap.”

  Chapter 11

  Spank

  No one sought to include Fesky in the post-victory celebrations, and she didn’t try to join in. She did consider pointing out that the victory was dubious at best, given they’d fled the engagement.

  But I won’t hurt morale like that.

  For too long, under Fleet orders, the crew of the Providence had fought battles from what was pretty clearly the moral low ground. This time, the enemy had attacked them, unprovoked, and in res
ponse they’d taken out an entire enemy squadron without suffering any casualties. It would do them good to celebrate a little.

  Her loneliness had company, today—she noticed Vin Husher by himself on the other side of the pilot locker room, slowly removing pieces of his g-suit. The others cast occasional glances at him, their eyes flitting away just as quickly.

  Everyone knew his father was Warren Husher, the infamous traitor, whose betrayal most people blamed for the hard time humanity had endured in the latter years of the First Galactic War. That was before Ochrim came and showed them Ocharium’s potential, which the humans then named for him. After he showed them how the mineral was the key to manipulating dark matter.

  Husher’s father hadn’t been heard from since he defected, and he was presumed to be dead.

  No one here knew anything about the son. Other than Fesky, who’d read his file. The other pilots didn’t know the reason he’d lost his command a mere four months after receiving it. But I do.

  At last, someone did address Husher, as they would never consider addressing Fesky. “Hey. What’s your callsign?” Senior Airman Bradley asked the question, who’d helped Husher dismantle the squadron of Talons.

  Husher ran a hand through his dirty blond hair, sprouting a sardonic smile. “Spank is what my old squadronmates gave me.”

  “Yeah? Why Spank?”

  “Would you believe it’s because I try to give the enemy a good spanking?”

  “Nah. I bet it’s because you like being spanked.”

  “Well, there’s only one way for you to find out. But I’m not sure you’d enjoy the consequences.”

  And with that, Husher was in. The other pilots surrounded him, swapping callsigns and insults.

  Fesky hopped to her feet and strode for the exit, trying not to look flustered. What a xenophobic lot. True, her own people hated humans right back, but she considered Wingers far more justified in their hatred.

  “Hey, Fesky.”

  She stopped and looked back, unable to help how quickly her head moved, though she knew it made the others uncomfortable. A space opened between her and Husher. No doubt he was about to degrade her, to cement his place among the others by pushing her farther outside. The others wouldn’t want to miss that kind of entertainment.

  “What’s your callsign?” he asked.

  She blinked. “I don’t…it’s Fesky. Just Fesky.”

  “You don’t have a callsign?”

  Maintaining eye contact, she said nothing.

  “We’ll have to find you one, then.” And he smiled.

  Callsigns were almost always slights—based on something a pilot had done to screw up, or some pronounced physical difference, of which Fesky had plenty. But this was one insult she’d always longed to receive. Thank you.

  “I’ll be interested to see if you can string more than one syllable together,” she said, and left the locker room.

  She set out to find the captain, who would want a battle report from her. The cramped corridors made her hunch unconsciously, and she straightened up whenever she noticed herself doing it. As she passed other crewmembers, she couldn’t stop focusing on how long her arms were in comparison to the humans’, not to mention the way her wings stirred the air.

  Fesky longed to spread those wings and just fly. If she could, she would fly for two days straight. But the Providence wasn’t designed for Winger recreation. Only her Condor came close to scratching that itch.

  She found the captain studying a tablet as he paced his office. “Fesky,” he said without looking up. “I hear our plan to conceal your presence from our new arrival didn’t pan out.”

  “Not quite, sir.”

  Keyes laid the tablet on his desk and gestured at the sturdy wooden chair for visitors. “Please. Sit.”

  “I’ll stand, sir, if it’s all the same to you.” She hated the way human chairs pressed against her wings.

  “Very well.” The captain circled his desk and settled into his own lightly-upholstered chair.

  “It ended up working out okay, that Husher came across me.”

  “Oh?”

  “It gave me the opportunity to test him. And I think he can be trusted.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. But I don’t like taking unnecessary risks.”

  “Respectfully, sir, I think my presence on this ship contradicts that statement.”

  Keyes chuckled. Then his face grew serious, and he clasped his hands on the desk, a gesture that tended to precede something the captain considered important. “Why do you think the Wingers attacked us, Fesky? Is it possible they’ve joined with the other species to challenge human dominance?”

  “I doubt it, sir. Who would they ally with? The isolationist Kaithe seem unlikely. The Tumbra don’t fight. They would never join with the Ixa, and I can’t see them making friends with the Gok.”

  “Why, then? Your people must know the UHF will crush them. And yet they refuse to even communicate with us.”

  She took a deep breath, an involuntary shudder running through her at the prospect she’d begun contemplating the moment her people attacked. “For them to throw themselves at us with such abandon…they must have reason to believe humanity poses some kind of threat to the Fins.”

  “But that’s absurd. We stand nothing to gain from attacking your sister species. In fact, we’d suffer significant losses, given your orbital defenses.”

  Fesky rustled her wings in an attempt to shrug as the humans did. “It’s the only reason I can think of.”

  Chapter 12

  Larkspur-Caprice

  “I apologize, Captain Keyes, but I cannot expedite official procedure without reason.”

  Keyes stared at the Tumbran’s impassive face and fought to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Blowing up at a Tumbran always made one feel like a jackass, since they reacted the same way to everything. “But I’ve given you the reason. The Providence suffered an unprovoked attack, and our assailants are in pursuit. If you don’t let us through now, you’ll have a battle happening right on top of you.”

  “There are three ships waiting to use the darkgate who arrived before you. I can only process one captain’s papers at a time, and I am bound by protocol. Again, I apologize.” The Tumbran’s eyes looked bored as it studied him. They rose like domes out of the top of the alien’s thin head, balanced out by its chin, which wobbled like a gray sack of marbles.

  Keyes decided not to act on his urge to threaten taking a shuttle over to the Tumbran’s monitor ship and wringing its pencil neck.

  This is my fault, really. If only he’d reported to Command directly following the engagement with the Wingers, he might have arrived at the darkgate to find standing orders to let him through without all the paperwork.

  His hull had taken a bruising from the Talons, though, and he’d spent most of the trip in communication with Engineering to ensure nothing vital had been damaged. As always, Keyes erred on the side of caring for his ship. Plus, contacting Command is never my first instinct.

  He marched over to the coms station, reached past the officer stationed there, and mashed his thumb against the red icon on the touchscreen—the equivalent of hanging up. The Tumbran vanished from the CIC’s main viewscreen, replaced by a view of the darkgate and the three ships trailing behind it. Two Winger freighters and a Tumbran science vessel.

  Keyes turned to face his crew. “Let it never again be said that the Tumbran favor humanity in anything. Commander Bronson, you have the CIC.”

  His XO saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Back in his quarters, Keyes steeled himself in anticipation of conversing with his superior. Briefly, he considered knocking back a shot of whiskey, but he discarded the thought as cowardly.

  It took an unusual amount of time to get through to Admiral Carrow. He had to talk his way through three subordinates before they finally patched him through and Carrow’s gaunt face appeared on Keyes’s private console.

  “Captain Keyes. This had better be good.”

 
; “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use to describe it, sir. A few hours ago the Providence was the victim of an unprovoked Winger attack. The enemy Roostship, Wingleader Korbyn’s, refused to yield despite our superior firepower, or even to communicate with us. It became clear that they were stalling for four more Winger warships to join them, presumably to destroy us. We took out the Roostship’s main aftward engine as well as a squadron of Talons before disengaging.”

  During his report, Carrow’s face progressed through several shades of red. Keyes didn’t falter, but he knew he wouldn’t like the response.

  “Keyes, do you realize you’ve likely started the Second Galactic War, here?”

  “That isn’t how I’d characterize it. We were not the aggressor.”

  “You should have never fired a shot, and you know it. You’re far too eager to prove the worth of that clunky old behemoth. This won’t even play well with your friends among the civilian population, you know that, don’t you?”

  I’m sure the media will spin it negatively, if that’s what you mean. “Sir, the Wingers launched a surprise attack. If we’d fled without defending ourselves, the Providence would have sustained heavy damage. I’d condemn any captain who failed to minimize risk to his ship and crew, and I hope you’d do the same.”

  Carrow sneered. “Don’t presume to offer me your expectations for my performance as an officer.”

  Keyes took a long breath, as quietly as he could. “My apologies, Admiral. I merely—”

  “I think it’s about time you got to the point of your call.”

  Other than to report our first clash with an alien military in thirty years? “I’ve contacted you to request your help in expediting our passage through customs at the Larkspur-Caprice darkgate. I believe the Winger ships will arrive at any moment. I’d also like to recommend that the UHF establish a much stronger presence in the Bastion Sector, to protect our colonies from further Winger aggression.”